


Memory

by leijonara



Category: CATS- Andrew Lloyd Webber, Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats
Genre: F/M, Gen, Multi, Other, Pre-Ball, Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 03:44:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4085401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leijonara/pseuds/leijonara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Macavity did more than hurt you physically when he kidnapped you. You knew that theoretically- but as time goes on, it seems some of the scars he left will never fade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memory

**Author's Note:**

> hey, this is a bit of a sequel to Cry In The Night- meaning you probably won't understand a lot of it if you've not read that. I suggest you do anyway, especially if you like reading about Macavity's cruel and unusual brands of punishment for the cats he's in charge of.

You've never really gotten over it.

You could be lying there in your den, safe in Munkustrap's arms, and then you'll close your eyes and be back there in that awful warehouse, screaming for help even through the hand clamped over your mouth. You'll see his eyes, burning like coals and wake up still screeching. His scent is that of a long cold fire, like stale ash left in the fireplace for years upon years. It always clings to you when you wake up.

You used to wonder why he'd chosen you as his little revenge piece. Theoretically, you knew. You were close to his brother, closer than anyone else. But it didn't seem fair that you were the one taken, that you were the one who endured weeks of torture. Why not other Jellicles? You never did anything to deserve it. But then... neither did the other cats he hurt and killed. Neither did Tugger, lying for weeks on old blankets in unbearable pain. Neither did Mungojerrie or Rumpleteazer, living under his cruelty their whole lives. Neither did Bill Bailey, or Carbucketty, or Sillabub, all dead by his paw. Executed in a neat little row.   
You hardly believed it when you began to think of yourself as lucky.

Sometimes, you'll get flashbacks. Maybe it's the glint of the moonlight on the oven that remind you of the glaring sun on the tin roof of his warehouse. Maybe it's the scent of a fish that brings back the disgusting fish paste you were fed, and the sharp, salty air of the dock area. Maybe it's the sound of a car going by the Junkyard that throws you back into the moment when, bolting away from his henchcat with Alonzo, you narrowly avoided being hit by a truck. You can't stand cars these days.

Other times, you're gripped by an overwhelming gratitude- for the cats that came to save you, for the cats that begged to let them, for the cats who helped you recover, for the cats who never once commented on how jittery you were.   
Are.   
You're not the same. You've grown into a timid queen, one who spooks at the slightest noise. You don't know why it's affected you so much. Yes, it was awful, it was the worst time of your life when you were kept by Macavity, but you know that some of the things he did to you, he did to cats like Rumpleteazer. She's always seemed happy and excitable- a little annoying, if you're perfectly honest, and sometimes kind of stubborn and rude. But you'd much rather be seen as over the top than a shy, retiring creature.

Bomba sticks up for you. She doesn't quite understand your anxiety, never will (you hope) but she doesn't need to. She knows when to slip her arm around you, when to step in front of you, when to stand behind you and back you up. She's everything you used to be, proud and frank and wonderful, and even if her ego does get in the way sometimes you love her. She's the best sister a cat could have.  
Not to snub Jemima- Everlasting knows you adore her. But she's frail, sweet and awfully naïve in ways that scare you. Sometimes, you need that. You need to be around a cat who's still young and pure, a cat with no cynicism yet. It's refreshing and calming. But other times, you worry and worry and worry about her. Even after her first Jellicle Ball, she's not picked out a mate. She didn't do the mating dance. She just wants to sing- to be like your mother. And that worries you even more. Grizabella, wherever she's gone, is no role model. Abandoning all her children to be raised by others, never even coming to visit... you hate the thought of your youngest sister becoming her.

As time passes, your memory becomes blurred. You're not sure what's going on. You assume magic. Because when you look back on those dark days in the warehouse, sometimes you don't remember Macavity as such an awful cat. Sometimes you even feel respect for him. And it disgusts you.  
The twins, Coricopat and Tantomile, agree there's definitely magic working there. They're the experts, so you trust them, but you want to remember him with nothing but disgust. You feel sick whenever the respect and admiration shows up.

When you tell Bomba, she presses her lips together. You think she may hate him even more than you- after all, he kidnapped you, almost slaughtered her love (even if he never loved her back) and tried to destroy her Tribe. You told her the whole story of your kidnapping, her and Munkustrap, and she knows the truth better than you do, these days. When you speak of it and mess up, she corrects you. It still sends a chill down your spine.

You and Munkustrap had been so perfect. You'd been able to calm his often frequent anxieties, as Tribe Protecter, and he'd been there as your confidante, the one cat aside from Bomba who understood you. And then Macavity came and took you away, and by the time you came back you were a different cat entirely.  
It's so difficult, trying to figure out how your relationship will work now. The dynamic's shifted. Yes, you're both the same cats, but there's a heaviness there now and you find yourself seeking his arms for comfort instead of seeking him out of joy. He feels guilty. He's told you as much. He describes this deep, abysmal regret and sorrow that it was his brother who hurt you. He still apologizes into the silence sometimes, and you hate it. It was never his fault. He's nothing but perfect.

A lot of time is spent in reflection now. You're trying to work out who you are. You sit and think about your third name and what it means, lost in a rapt contemplation, but frequently you find yourself sinking into a deep, dark mood when you do.  
You begin to try to live in the moment only. It's hard.

There are still cats who don't understand. Some of the younger queens and toms avoid you, wary of your demeanor. They don't know fully what went on, don't know how to treat you now. You're angry that they seem to think you're nothing but spun glass. Yes, you're more quiet now, maybe you smile less- but it doesn't mean you don't enjoy common things like chatting and dancing and playing.   
One day, you have a panic attack right there in the main clearing. Something about Plato- whether it's the broadness of his shoulders or just the way he moves. You don't know what it is, but it triggers an attack and you find yourself wheezing for air, stumbling away into the shadows with wide eyes. A moment later Electra joins you. She puts her paw on your shoulder and (after you smack it away, flinching at the contact) repeats, "it's okay, it's okay, memories can't hurt you!"  
Memories can't hurt you, she says over and over in her sweet little voice.  
Some days it feels as though you're drowning in memories, jagged black chips of fear and hatred and pain.  
Memories can't hurt you? If you repeat it enough it'll be true. So you chant it in your mind, til it blurs into a long drone of noise. The memories won't touch you! They can't!  
Of course, they do anyway.


End file.
